A Fool's Journey Volume I

Volume I

a fool’s journey

Mosanami Etal

Book One

SmashWords Edition

a fool’s journey - Copyright 2013 by Mosanami Etal

SmashWords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author and publisher of this book.

Formatting by RikHall.com

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to the team who breathes life into this book series: the graphic designer, the editor, the formatter, and the international core beta reader groups one and two.

Book Series Dedication

To the living memory of my mother.

BOOK ONE is the first of an ongoing book series where the Author takes pause to reflect upon his life as a jigsaw puzzle. It is a mystery where he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope of achieving greater understanding of why he is here.

I share with Roland Barthes the opinion that the text is formed by the reader rather than by the author. — Rain-walker

Author's Introduction

In the story of Tarot, the Fool represents each of us as we begin our life journey. At birth, we willingly play the role of fool because only the purest of Spirit brings forth the innocence and blind faith to trust.

The Fool is ready to embrace whatever comes down his or her path to learn the lessons of the world, and is oblivious to the hardships and vicissitudes of life. Newly born, bright, and open to spontaneously venture to adventure; from comfort and joy—to pain and suffering.

It is in this context that I share with you the stories of my life: a fool’s journey. So please, if you will…

"Sit by my side, come as close as the air,

Share in a memory of gray;

Wander in my words, dream about the pictures

That I play of changes."

-- "Changes" by Phil Ochs

Book One, The Ring Bearer

It is always the Darkest…before The Light. That is one of the many life lessons my mother tried to teach me. Yes, I do mean ‘tried.’ In fact, they all tried. All of my mothers took me to school: my birth mother, surrogate mothers, Mother Earth, Mother Nature, and the Mother of All Creation. And still, here is where I remain—a student.

My earliest childhood memories go back to when I was five years old, an untried and callow time.

That is where my life began—on the day my Aunt Mary was going to teach me how to swim. I needed to learn to swim because that summer I was going to spend four weeks at the Miller family’s beach house. Aunt Mary was really not my aunt at all, but she looked after Elizabeth and Jessica Miller, and sometimes me too. My mother considered Aunt Mary to be one of her closest friends. I had a lot of Aunts, but few of them were related to me by blood. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and many of my Aunts lived in my village—Greenwich Village.

Aunt Mary was engaged to a man named George. George was a very nice man. Coming from me, this is a compliment of the highest order, because I did not care for men at all when I was younger—didn’t trust them, didn’t like them. But George was different than the others—that was why I called him an uncle! Uncle George wasn’t there on the day of my swimming lesson, due to his busy work schedule, but Elizabeth and Jessica were going to take the swimming lesson along with me. We were fortunate to have Aunt Mary teaching us, because she was a certified swimming instructor.

There were two swimming pools—one was knee-deep and square for wading; the other was long, rectangular, and Olympic-sized. We arrived early, as my mother was never late for anything. She would prefer to patiently wait an hour rather than play beat-the-clock. Me? I did not inherit her unending patience. Nope—I gotta move!

That day, however, I made a concerted effort.

You better keep still BOY, if you know what’s good for you! She bellowed at me.

I was well aware of what was coming next. There was a consistent pattern. The first warning was the menacing glare out of the corner of one of her squinted eyes, accompanied by a terse, tight, quivering of the lips. There was never a turn of her head, just the sidelong glance. The second warning was always started with, You Better…

Two warnings were all you were gonna get. And that second one was a gift from her Christian, God-fearing, compassionate side. As far as she was concerned, one warning was more than enough. Mom was Old School. On the third strike, you got what was coming to you. She was gonna knock you straight through Purgatory and into Hell on that third one.

Mom was a maestro too—the maestro of the backhand slap. She was as quick as greased lightning! Impressions of the back of her palm often were emblazoned on my tender cheeks, serving as a reminder. On that day, I had a handprint that was reminding me of a couple of Sundays before. On the way home from an agonizing three-hour Church service during which I had to discipline myself to remain as still as humanly possible, we ran into one of her friends. We were only three city blocks from emancipation—the place we called home. The place where I could shed the skin of the navy blue blazer, bowtie, white shirt, suspenders, navy blue shorts, navy blue knee-high socks, and black shoes.

As Mom stood there chatting with her friend, I was terrified that my worst nightmare would come true—that one of my friends would turn the corner and catch me standing there in my Sunday best, with my mother holding my hand. Imagine! I couldn’t think of anything worse.

I was fidgety, looking over my left shoulder first, then my right. I needed to buy some time to pull away if need be. And there my mom was, just chitchatting away slowly and calmly, as if I had nothing better to do with my time but hold her hand and listen.

Then, in the distance, I caught a glimpse of two familiar figures. It looked like Bernard and his brother Peter. Could it be? Were they coming this way? They were too far away for me to tell for sure, but too close to take any chances. I started to panic, thinking of what I should do. Then it hit me—I could bend down real low to pretend to tie my shoelaces; maybe then they wouldn’t see me.

Yes! That’s it!

Suddenly my mother’s grip became tighter. This wasn’t gonna be easy, but I couldn’t think of anything else in the moment.

Pull away—NOW!

I successfully wiggled my tiny hand free from her grip. At just that moment, with a fluid pendulum motion, she swung her now-free hand upward in a gesture to her friend. With the velocity of a guillotine and the intense ferocity of renowned Italian conductor Arturo Toscanini, she delivered a backhanded slap across my face. Before I could so much as register the shock, that same free flowing hand secured mine once again in an even tighter grip. The cadence of her voice never changed, and not for a blink of an eye did she remove her gaze from her friend’s.

I briefly relived that moment of shock, and felt a little numbness in my right cheek. I kept my body still but allowed the unbridled imagination of my mind to run wild and free, like a massive herd of stampeding wildebeests sweeping across the open African plains.

I hitched a ride, and they dropped me off at the edge of the jungle, leaving me alone to call upon the greatest swimmer in the history of swimming: Tarzan, the Ape Man. I watched every movie in the Tarzan series on TV over and over as a child. He was one of my heroes. Not just any of the Tarzans either, as several men played the part. For me, there was only one Tarzan: Johnny Weissmuller.

Back at the swimming pool, I peeked over at my mom, who was still sitting quietly, her eyes closed. I felt the urge to nudge her and let her in on my little secret: I already knew how to swim! I had learned by watching the best swimmer in the whole wide world, over and over again—I was certain I’d take to the water like a fish.

Maybe she was asleep; she was tired and had just come off of the graveyard shift. I could not tell for certain but my common sense told me waking her would be a grave mistake. She wouldn’t believe me anyway. She was simply going to have to see for herself. And, Oh Boy! Was she ever going to be surprised!

In my mind, I replayed images of Tarzan swimming. As soon as I felt I had memorized his technique, I opened my eyes to observe both empty pools. The long, rectangular pool had a super-tall ladder that led to a diving board.

Yes, that will substitute nicely for a giant tree in the jungle. But something is missing. What is missing? Yes! Of course! There are no vines to swing from! No worries—I’ll be Tarzan diving off a cliff. Done! Cliff diving will certainly be a lot easier than swinging from a vine, at least for my very first time. Okay, good—almost ready.

I needed a storyline and a mission. I let my imagination run wild.

Cheeta, my faithful chimpanzee and best friend, frees me from the bondage of those diabolical White Hunters. The Hunters have gone to find and kidnap Jane. Their plan is not only to poach the animals that are my friends and family, but also put me in a zoo and return Jane to her family in the far-off modern world.

Must find Jane before they do!!! Must find Jane!!!

Mom! You are one of the White Hunters assigned to guard me. But you fell asleep, didn’t you? You have been awake guarding me all night, and no one came to give you a break.

Cheeta? Is that you? I’m over here! Quick! Untie my wrists and ankles. Thank you, Cheeta! Do you know where Jane is? Swimming? Where? In the Crocodile River? But I told her to never swim in that river without me! Don’t you worry Cheeta -- I know a short cut up a cliff! Wait! What’s that noise? Hush. Be quiet. I hear something.

Once more, I surveyed the surrounding area. No adults yet, which meant the Hunters had not yet returned. There was still time to rescue Jane!

Okay, Cheeta, follow me. But be very, very quiet.

We made it to the bottom of the cliff without waking the guard and drawing attention to ourselves.

Cheeta, wait here and keep a lookout. I know you want to go, but you can’t swim, and I don’t have the time to teach you now. I’m sorry, Cheeta, but I promise to teach you when I return. Okay?

Carefully, I climbed up to the top of the cliff. I crawled along the long board, imagining it as a log sticking out of a rocky wall. I looked over the edge. It was a long way down.

Suddenly, a commotion of voices caught my attention. Aunt Mary had arrived with Elizabeth and Jessica! Just in time! My mother was awake! I could see that they were looking around for me. Up here was the last place they would look. I figured I had better let them know where I was before they worried too much.

I looked down into the water, and I saw her—Jane! Jane, and—CROCODILES! Not another moment to spare!

I’m coming for you, Jane! Here goes!

I bounced up and down on the log then sprung up into the air. I beat my scrawny chest with my tiny fists, and let out a Tarzan yodel.

Aaaaaaah-Uh-aaaaaah-uh-AAAAAAAAH!

For sure, everyone knew where I was now! SPLASH! I hit the water! I was going down, down, down. I opened my eyes and felt the sting of chlorine. My nostrils were burning, too. My eyes were on fire, but I needed to keep them open to see where in hell I was going. Suddenly, I remembered what to do!

Blow up my cheeks like that famous man who plays the trumpet with his eyes bulging out of his head. Now swim! Kick your legs out like a frog! Flap your arms about like the wings of a Butterfly, and swim! I’M DOING IT! Yes! I’m swimming!

I had mastered the Tarzan technique. But there was one thing that I could not understand. Why was I still going down, down, down? I was doing everything right! What did I forget?

And then a feeling came over me that I will never, ever forget. EVER! It was an empty feeling without any emotional attachment.

Oh, well…I tried.

This was followed by an act of complete and absolute surrender. There was no fear or panic whatsoever; there was no sadness, not even remote disappointment. I was calm and collected.

I tried and it just didn’t work out, but this is okay.

I relaxed my body and opened my mouth to release whatever air was left, and to permit passage of the water.

To this day, I remember this act of surrender as the most serene, tranquil, and euphoric feeling I have ever felt. As if it just happened this morning.

I didn’t share this experience with anyone until I was an adult. I chose to let people believe that I was afraid of the water, afraid of drowning. But this was not the case, not at all—it was the exact opposite.

In my late teens, I read about others who have had what experts refer to as a near-death experience. Most of these so-called experts have studied others who have had such experiences. But as far as I am concerned, an expert is only someone who has endured the experience him or herself, many, many, many times.

Just like others have described, I could feel myself leave my body, though there wasn’t any significant emotion attached to my response. I found the experience interesting more than anything else.

Hey! I’m leaving me! Wow! Isn’t this interesting?

And yes, there was the whole vision of white light that is commonly shared by people who come close to death. But I don’t remember a tunnel of any kind. I just remember everything being so bright. Then, I paused and turned around to look down to observe Aunt Mary diving into the water to rescue me.

I watched as she pulled me out of the water, gave me mouth-to-mouth, and pumped the water from my chest. I remember thinking.

There is a reason I came here. I came here to experience something I have not yet experienced, and I can only experience it—here.

This thought was in my own voice. My Voice and My Choice.

In a fraction of a second, I returned back to my body. After the last few ounces of pool water were pumped out of my body, and the first breath of oxygen expanded into my lungs, I recall what was without a doubt, absolutely, and positively, to this very day by far…

THE MOST PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT I HAVE EVER ENDURED!

When I became an adult, I reflected on this pain. I arrived at the conclusion that this must be why no one remembers being born. I have never heard of any person who remembers what it is like to be born.

And when I heard Annie Lennox sing for the first time, Dying is easy, it’s living that scares me to death, I laughed out loud.

Ain’t that the truth—You got that right!

Anyway, I figured out later on that one of the things that I must have wanted to experience was being a ring bearer in a wedding, because Aunt Mary asked me if I would perform the honor when she married Uncle George. Elizabeth and Jessica were to be the flower girls. I accepted, and was excited and nervous at the same time; I took the role very seriously. The way that I saw it, there was not a single duty of greater importance than that of The Ring Bearer.

I wore my Sunday bests to the ceremony, even though the wedding was on a Saturday: black shoes, navy blue knee-high socks, navy blue shorts, suspenders over a crisp white shirt, bow tie, and a navy blue blazer. I was the proudest little boy to have ever lived on that Holy Day of Matrimony.

The Magic of Butterflies and The Glow

I never did learn to swim that summer, but I still was invited to spend four magical weeks at the Miller’s Beach House in Amagansett on the far eastern end of Long Island. It was indeed a long island—it seemed like it took us forever to get there. There was only one more town after Amagansett, after that it was all about the reach of the ocean, all the way to Europe – I think. Anyway, whatever piece of land was on the other side, I knew it was too far away for me to swim.

Their house was on Bluff Road, not too far from A&B Snowflake, which is where we got our ice cream cones and root beer floats. They also carried other stuff, but what else would a kid want besides ice cream cones and root beer floats at the beach?

The house was a real beach house too—right on the beach, surrounded by sand and surf. The best part was, you could drag the sand into the house with you, and the adults wouldn’t even yell at you. The furniture was made of things that one would find on the beach, like sun-bleached driftwood, and the Miller family created the coolest pieces of artwork using seashells. Every night there was a cook out, with people playing musical instruments, singing, and dancing. There was no television, and no one missed it. It was summer—nothing but re-runs anyway!

When I was older, I would visit the beach homes of my schoolmates. The houses were mostly furnished like New York City apartments or townhouses—like museums. You were always afraid to sit on anything for fear you would break or damage it in some way. And God forbid if you so much as dragged a grain of sand inside the house—you would never be invited back! I could never understand why these people didn’t buy a house in the mountains where there was no sand. Of course, many of them had homes in the mountains as well. I suppose they believed children were not made to feel comfortable. The only the children who were comfortable, we called young fogies. And they were not much fun.

My mother raised me to show respect toward adults. I always said, please and thank you. I never spoke unless spoken to first, and I made certain that my answers were brief, because adults were rarely genuinely interested in anything I had to say anyway. For the most part, adults only truly cared about what they had to say. That was great preparation for life—a valuable lesson! Thanks Mom!

When you are silent but present, the only thing left for you to do is observe and listen carefully. And that’s exactly what I did, which explains why I did not care for adults. They say one thing, then turn around immediately and do something else. Any child who pays attention will see that adults are most often an uptight, self-important, know-it-all, bossy, and downright stupid lot, no matter how intelligent and successful that they believe themselves to be.

The Miller parents, however, were an exception to the rule. They were gentle, kind, patient, and respectful to children and adults alike. They were cool! Both were professors at the University, and they enjoyed most of the summer free from work.

One night over dinner, I shared with them my desire to catch a Butterfly. I told them I wanted to catch it the following morning. After we finished eating, they unearthed about a dozen empty glass jars with fitting lids, and I spent the rest of the evening selecting the perfect jar. Then I brought it to bed with me and slept with it.

The morning was bright and sunny. I was the first in the house to get out of bed. I rummaged about downstairs until I found a screwdriver to pierce holes in the lid so the Butterflies could breathe fresh air. It took me a lot of time to decide on the number of holes. First I needed to figure out how many Butterflies I wanted to catch. One would be too lonely. Two might be good. I didn’t think three was a good number, and four seemed like too many. So, two it was! Eight air holes! Four holes per Butterfly should be the perfect amount.

I knew they’d need food, too. What do Butterflies eat? I didn’t know. This was becoming much more difficult than I thought it would be.

Let me see…where do Butterflies like to hang out? Of course—around flowers! Not so difficult after all! I’ll pick up some flowers along the way. What about to drink? Hmmm… That’s easy! Every living thing drinks water! When it rains, I will put jar the outside. And if it doesn’t rain for a long time, like five days or more, I’ll put the jar in the shower!

What’s next? The net! Where did I put it? Underneath the bed.

I went to retrieve the net and checked it thoroughly for rips and big holes. None. I was good to go!

It was a gorgeous day. I left the beach house armed with the jar and net, in search of flowers, but I couldn’t find any to my liking near the house. So I paused momentarily to take note of the tall grass on the sand dunes in the distance, blowing gently with the wind against the big, blue sky. It was so quiet and calm that I swear I could hear the blades of grass whistling to each other. Ready or not Butterflies, here I come!

I climbed up and crept into the tall grass on the sand dunes. Right away, I noticed a beautiful monarch fluttering about.

Oh Man! She’s SO big!

Her wings were larger than my ears. I began the pursuit. I chased her, and I chased her, and I chased her, and I chased her until I was completely out of breath. I was fast, too. I was the fastest little boy in my class, but that Butterfly was a lot faster. And she could fly, too! I had not learned how to fly yet. After I learned how to swim, then I would learn how to fly!

But that day, I became stuck and did not know what to do. At some point during the great chase, I lost my jar. I stood dumbfounded in the tall grass. I found myself in a place in which I did not desire to be—not knowing what to do next. I thought about how to get out of that place. Finally, I dropped to my knees and raised the Butterfly net high above my head, as far as my arms would stretch. Camouflaged by the tall grass, where no one could see me, I knelt in silence and stillness, eyes closed.

You better be still, boy, if you know what’s good for you.

The sounds of the Atlantic Ocean waves thrashing and rolling up on the shore, flies and bees buzzing, seagulls chitchatting, were all layered over an unfamiliar hum. I could feel the slowly rising sun grace the crown of my head with a warm, tender, loving massage. Salty air and the ever-present scent of wet seaweed filled my nostrils. My lips became dry, so I stuck out my moist tongue to lick them.

When I opened my eyes, lifted my chin, and tilted my forehead to the bright blue sky, I saw that the Monarch Lady was in the net! I stood up, nice and slow. Then I reached into the net and cradled the Butterfly in my hand. I opened my hand to have a closer look at her. The bright colors! I felt her tickling the palm of my hand. And she did not fly away!

Hey! How about that? She likes me!

We spent a good part of the early morning strolling on the beach, just the two of us. She stayed in my open palm for the longest time, and then flew off to flutter about my head as we wandered along the shoreline. On the return walk to the beach house, she rested on my shoulder for most of the way.

When I arrived at the steps leading to the front porch, I paused for a moment, and then she fluttered away. I shot a cheerful and contented smile her way while waving goodbye.

That was a gift, that magical experience. It’s another story I chose not to share with anyone until I grew older. I didn't believe that anyone else believed in real magic. I was sure they would think it was nothing more than a tall tale from the tall grass of the sand dunes.

This lovely Monarch Lady taught me the true value of Stillness and Patience, and made me a firm Believer in Magic too! And now, I had two secrets. But there were three major life-altering events that occurred during my fifth year. The final one of these events was my first indication that there was something more, her name was Becky.

We were schoolmates. I did not consider her a friend, but we did say hello to each other every day. There was only one girl in my group of friends, Marianne, a tomboy. We played Johnny Quest on the playground during recess, a cartoon television show we all loved.

There was Johnny Q, Dr. Q, Race, Hadji, and Bandit, the dog. Because I was the only person of color, I had to be Hadji, the Indian character, every time. I didn’t mind so much, because he was Johnny's best friend. But Marianne was the only girl, so if she wanted to play, she had to be Bandit the dog. There were simply no other roles for girls.

One day, Marianne decided she didn't want to be the dog anymore. She wanted to be Hadji!

What the f—? No way! Hadji is all I have! There is no way I’m giving him up. Not gonna happen! Not today! Not tomorrow, or the next day either!

Well, Marianne threw a tantrum and delivered a swift and powerful, unexpected kick to my balls, which put me out of the game for a couple of days. That's how long it took for my balls to complete the return journey from the bottom of my throat to my ball sack. For those two days, Marianne got to play Hadji.

I did not care much for girls after that experience, though I didn't really care for them before then, either. But one day, Becky's mother called my mother to invite me over to their apartment for milk and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies to celebrate the expected birth of their cat's kittens.

"Yes. Next Wednesday. Becky stubbornly believes that